


The Weight of Chance-Desires

by missmollyetc



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gender Issues, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: They are mired in ice, and yet Francis Crozier is the most ridiculous iceberg of a captain James has ever met.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 19
Kudos: 107





	The Weight of Chance-Desires

**Author's Note:**

> ONCE AGAIN, a workperson has come to my house and I panic!wrote like sixteen pages of fic in a fandom I'm not even _in_ to distract myself from both the cost of an HVAC and their presence in the first place. I am the weirdest, I know. Also, once more, this is un-betad, so all the mistakes are mine own. I'm sorry if this is confusing! There were a lot of distressing bangs coming from the garage.
> 
> (title from William Wordsworth's [)](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45535/ode-to-duty'>)

It was, of course, de rigueur that Francis Crozier should not be spared the wit of those whose worth had climbed higher in Sir John’s estimation. He was Irish, after all, with that famous ill-temper sprouted from that race’s weakness towards drink, and painfully, all-too-obviously conscious of how the former conditions regulated his path to glory in Her Majesty’s Navy. To whit, James found himself embarrassed on behalf of the man himself, almost forced to watch Francis’ cancerous deterioration as second in command of an expedition which would afford him no higher elevation. 

Try as he could, it fascinated as much as it repelled to see a man who dangled on his last length of rope, and knew it, and was at heart clearly too honest a soul to deny that fact in public. Still, though he was soured on lost hopes, Francis could at least have had the dignity to please the company he trapped himself with. If life had taught James nothing, it was that society rewarded those who entertained it and scorned they who professed themselves above such niceties.

Still, James maintained his course. He was not yet too far gone to forget his flatteries when Sir John dined with his officers in toto. Francis ate respectably as a good sailor ought, and if he hogged the wine he more than made up for Sir John’s own abstention. If James could not stop himself from prickling at _Terror_’s master and commander than at least their contretemps were useful, not merely to prove James’ own bona fides as a sailor despite his lack of Arctic experience, but also to show his colors appropriately at the side of his current patron. Of Sir John’s fickleness in favor one look no further than Francis, after all. James intended to take the example to heart.

Across the dining table, Francis’ high coloring stood out less as a healthy flush than as a brand in the lamplight. His glass had never been empty, and yet always in his grasp. His milky Irish pallor hid none of the redness brought about by wind and whiskey in a way that James’ own flesh never copied no matter how deep in his cups he followed his comrades. His blond hair, what there was of it, attained no style, though James could see the attempt by his steward to ape the roman. It stood up at all angles, regardless. 

James’ own hair curled abominably in the heat and was tamed only with heated tongs; still, he tried. He tucked a carefully arranged strand behind his ear and hid his smirk behind his glass as he sipped.

Little and Gore had carried the conversation so far, and Sir John had permitted them the floor as he himself attended to his salt beef and potatoes. His benevolence at dinner time was well known, allowing the younger officers their measure of attention and freedom of speech as long as the topics remained, as he put it, “savory” with as big a laugh for the pun as for the talk. Seated as he was, nearest to Sir John, while Francis ate merely at hand, solely out of respect to the order of precedence, James felt he was allowed this moment of reflection.

What had Francis been in those previous voyages to endear him so tenderly to the likes of Sir John Ross? There was nothing of sweetness to the man, nothing built to ingratiate, and James could discern none of the little flourishes of character that he himself employed to bring his own ambitions to the fore. That he knew the sea could be in no doubt, nor did he lack scientific acumen. Of the two, he readily accepted—to himself at least—that Francis held the weather gage in magnetic research and yet it was not he put in charge of that self-same study, but James. Had Francis flattered instead of scorned, their positions might have not so readily been settled. Yet Francis appeared as he was, ruddy-faced and solidly framed, intransigent, yet another conundrum in a cruise which was rapidly shaping up to be full of them. 

James revolved his glass in his fingers, and glanced around the ward room. Little and Gore had given way to Dundy’s recounting of an amusement given on the _Calliope_ where a shortage of women had seen the ship’s boys dressed as sylphs. James swallowed a larger measure of port than he had intended and covered his mouth as he coughed.

Sir John laughed. “A fine costume choice,” he declared.

“As there was a distinct lack of available fabric, sir,” Dundy said, with as sly a look as could be allowed. “It was decided that imagination was the best sauce at the feast.”

Sir John laughed again; the other officers followed suit. James, of course, did his polite duty though his throat had turned a touch dry. He stopped laughing as soon as Sir John’s own chuckles tapered off politely. Even Francis managed a tightening of his mouth which could be construed as a smile.

James set his glass down and Francis looked over as if he’d heard the noise in spite of the general merriment. Their eyes met and James stopped, caught; he swallowed. Francis’ features were harmed by drink, his mouth was set in the same sullen line that no amount of coercion ever pulled taut in happiness, and his steward’s able hand had surely been wasted ten seconds after Francis had been left alone with his shirt collar. Had James beheld him in a tavern he would look no less dissolute, and yet he met Francis’ gaze and did not look away, held fast by some knowing glitter deep within their depths. 

He could not give the cut direct to a superior officer, after all, even one so…so determined to aid in his own eclipse. James found he dared not blink, as though Francis had caught James’ own errant thought of fabrics and rude limbs made elegant by the slip of satin. As a child, he’d often played dress up with his cousin in the nursery; it had only been a thought, and there was nothing in it. 

But Francis, drunk as he was, by God, looked at him as if they shared a secret when truth was that they could barely share a carriage without lapsing into argument. As if James’ ambitions were the real performance and only Francis had the gall to call him upon his flummery. Not even English, James…not even true born. What role did you play in your nursery, James? Were you the dashing knight or the princess in her tower?

James’ tongue flickered out between the cracked seam of his lips to wet them, and the smallest corner of Francis’ mouth twitched. James broke their standoff with a flick of his hair and sat up in his seat. He turned to Sir John. The man was partway through his meal, and conversation had lulled in that manner that followed a spiced tale. A quick, humorous anecdote was called for, clearly, and he had just the stuff to hand. 

***

If ever there had be a line of doggerel that James had taken dearly to heart it was in that same Macbeth he had found thrust in the back of his uncle’s study with its tragic villains and sordid wives. “To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus” was the watchword by which James had chosen to steer his fortunes. He had stormed fortresses and repelled invaders, traversed deserts to complete a mission at the brink of failure, and been brought to the brink of misfortune only to regain his footing time and time again, across lands he could not have ventured to imagine in his childhood. The Arctic had seemed nothing so severe after China and the Euphrates expedition…what could?

James tucked the mauve tie beneath his knit cuff, and shifted in his chair. The air stung his nose, and his breath was visible when he breathed out, like a beast at pasture. Beside him, Francis sipped his water; he seemed so tired.

It was only that James had not known what the cold could do to a man. How insidious a torment was the loss of heat, and all it portended: the demise of taste, of smell, the roughening of the skin and cracking of the lips, the endless bone-rattling shivers and the horror of what happened when they stopped completely. James felt each lack keenly, though he preserved his dignity in front of the crew. Still, in times of stress he became a miser of comforts—he knew this of himself—and equally willing to go to great lengths to hide this peccadillo from his crew and captain.

It was only a bit of velvet, after all. An extra layer of warmth against the all-encompassing, implacable chill that hugged them all closer than any lover had. After his momentary lapse amongst the costuming, his discovery of blood which would not stop staining his temples before freezing hard to his skin…after…after the fire…

A quick glance to his left, revealed Francis shoveling the grey mass that was dinner into his mouth with the grim implacability of a man who knew the poison he consumed. He was pale again, still, through the worst of his delirium tremens and back into the dire straits which had so thoroughly encompassed the expedition. No doctors now. No way forward, nor back. Only the overland chance.

James sipped his wine and eyed Francis’ water glass. He had been—he _was_ brave; James could see that now. Francis was a man for no season but winter, and they were plunged into endless cold now. Francis without the drink, without Sir John’s memory for slights, or perhaps in spite of his own, he seemed to glow in the remaining light in the cabin. He had an air about him now, a determination.

It was almost cozy here, just the two of them, with the remains of dinner. Francis in his vest and shirtsleeves, and James in his jumper. He looked down at his own plate and idly poked the meat with his knife. Francis was free of his crutch, and now James felt he could not do without one. The irony killed doubt, but it was only a bit of velvet, and cheap at that—old and thin. James swallowed and pressed his hand to his chest, calming both breath and the damnable shaking of his fingers. His fingers fumbled over a button. He could feel the wide collar of the bodice even still through his knit jumper and undershirts. The places where the dress panels had been sewn together to form a line with the corset, if there were to be such a thing against his body, holding him tightly. If he were to be dressed as a—as a lady.

He hadn’t neglected his duty to find it again. Not to the men, nor to his ship, nor to the corpses his vanity had left strewn in its fiery wake. He had simply been in need of some kind of softness, a feeling of boundary in a world where every line drawn was slowly becoming obscured until it hardly mattered what either side demarcated. He had found the dress, and cut it, not very neatly, below the bodice. He’d thrown the skirt back into the chest, and secreted his prize on his person. Not even Bridgens knew he wore it now, a soft secret in a harsh, every shrinking world. But perhaps Bridgens would understand if he wore it again. After all, his steward had Mr. Peglar. Let James keep his velvet.

James put down his knife and fork, and stretched his arms out over of the table. The time had come for a tale, surely. He could come up with something, an amusement to lighten their solemnity. He had laughed under fire in that desert town on his way to the sea, carrying the post like it was a sacred charge, more sacred than the men lost carrying it down the river. How had he laughed before? He was sure to remember how…

His left arm landed on the table, between he and Francis, and then Francis’ hand landed across James’ knuckles. James froze at the touch; Francis’ palm was warm, and his skin was not soft yet it moved so gently against James’ flesh. Francis stroked the back of his hand towards his wrist. James could only watch, breath in his throat, as Francis pinched out the wrinkled mauve ribbon peeking out from beneath his jumper. James cleared his throat, a strangled cough of air. 

Francis held the ribbon up in the air, and James felt the tug as it pulled at the sleeve to which it connected. He swallowed and licked his lips. Francis looked only at the ribbon, turning it this way and that, as if he had never seen one before.

“What’s this?” he asked, quietly.

James opened his mouth before he knew what to say. He pulled his wrist back towards his chest, but Francis held fast. 

“It’s just a bit of ribbon,” he said.

“Yes, I can see _that_,” said Francis, with a shade of his former asperity. “But belonging to what? I realize we are out in the midst of nowhere, but—but where could you have found this?”

James reached out with his free hand and took a restorative gulp of his wine. He looked down at his plate to avoid Francis’ all-too-clear eyes. Even drunk the man possessed a singular talent at vexation; sober he was a menace to thought.

“It’s part of a costume,” James said.

“From the carnival?” he asked. “James, why would you want a reminder—”

“It isn’t a reminder!” James looked up at him, and then glanced away. “I simply commandeered an extra layer from our stores. For warmth.”

“For warmth,” Francis echoed. He wrapped a bit of the ribbon around his finger and considered it. The crease underneath his eye seemed deeper as James looked on it, and suddenly he felt the urge to touch Francis Crozier’s worn cheek, and feel the bristles on it. He stayed where he was sat, propriety and custom his saviors.

“What costume was this?” Francis asked.

James felt a tightness in his throat. He blinked the slight moisture from his eyes, a damnable trait he had never fully managed to control. He breathed out though his mouth. 

“I couldn’t say,” he said, heartily. He made his smile and sat back in his chair. “The chest was full of frippery, don’t you know. I merely took the nearest object to hand. It’s damnably cold, if you’ll recall.”

Francis caught his eye and pulled the ribbon taut in the same swift movement, but James tilted his chin and smiled in his face. The beaten nose with its reddened tip twitched as he watched Francis’ eyes narrow in thought. He pulled on the ribbon again, but James refused to be moved.

Slowly, without looking away, Francis began to wind the ribbon around his finger, until his hand once again brushed James’ own. James swallowed. He felt his lips press together and soften; he licked them. Carefully, Francis pushed the coiled ribbon back underneath James’ jumper. His fingernails scratched lightly at James’ skin before Francis gripped him by the wrist and tugged lightly.

He had a gentle touch, perhaps practiced on Miss Cracroft or any young slip of a thing in the ports where sailors washed up. His thumb pressed at the inside of James’ wrist, right over the pulse, where the ribbon tied the sleeve of the bodice closed. James cleared his throat. A ribbon was nothing, it was no kind of admission. 

He tossed his head to the side and his hair bounced away from his face before settling back. It had lost its curl to the cold and his own ill-health, but he still treasured it, fool though he was. Beside him, he felt Francis sit back in his own seat. James pulled at his grip, but Francis held firm.

He brought their hands beneath the table and rested them on his knee. James tensed. He looked down at the table where his food lay mostly untouched. It was sin to waste food in this place, even in spite of Goodsir’s findings. Still, all his attention seemed destined to revolve around his hand in Francis’ grasp.

Silence reigned. Their relationship was not such that he—no such relationship existed that would see him with his hand in—in anyone else’s here, not even Le Vesconte, not even Gore. His fingers trembled against the fabric of Francis’ trousers, and curled without permission at the warmth of Francis’ knee.

“I would like you to show me what costume you have decided on for your comfort,” Francis said, and though his voice was quite unlike its usual rough bark, it brooked no argument.

He was not a maiden in a tower, nor a delicate miss in her first season. His jaw firmed. He turned his head, and Francis’ thumb stroked a circle in the midst of James’ palm. He felt cold air well in his mouth as his lips parted.

“Why?” he asked.

“I believe…” Francis sighed a plume of air, white in the cold, out from between his lips. “I believe we know each other a little better than we thought before, don’t you?”

James swallowed. Francis’ eyes were sharp now, too sharp, and James felt the danger of this intimate new territory in the clench of Francis’ hand over his own. What did Francis think he knew? What could he say that James knew could not be breathed in polite company. But once more Francis—this new Captain—looked at James, and James felt that he could read James’ thoughts, and recognized himself. James twisted his head and stared at the remains of his dinner.

“Then I shall need my hand back, Captain,” James snapped, even as he was released.

He flexed his left hand, suddenly adrift, and then withdrew it to his own lap. Francis waited, looking at him. James stuck his chin out and sat upright in his chair. It was too cold to undress and they both knew it, but what did it matter? Two ships mired in ice, Sir John dead, and every man burned in a carnivale that Dante himself could have described with bruising accuracy. Francis in his cups would have been no more frightening than this sober stranger now. He ignored the buttons on his jump and pulled it off with both hands, and then tossed it over the table where it slid to the floor. His hair flopped about his ears; his bones ached in the cold.

Francis reached over, and James held his breath, but he merely moved James’ place setting out of the way, setting the cup and plate and cutlery alongside his own. Again that appraising stare reached James’ gaze. His shirt was next, the buttons fumbled beneath his stiff fingers, and then his black neck cloth because he’d forgotten the discomfort of dragging his collar out from underneath it, but soon both cloth and shirt had followed his jumper. His undershirt he left until Francis raised his eyebrows, and James felt himself flush.

Why was he doing this? What authority could Francis claim—other than that he was captain and First and amidst the ice he had emerged like a man reborn, and James…James needed to be reborn. He felt shame like tongues of flame licking at his skin, but it was a heat he could almost savor. Let Francis judge, as was his right and duty as captain. If he would not be condemned for the carnivale, then let this bring his end closer. He took it off, though Francis could doubtless see the costume beneath the undershirt, and held it in his hands, clenching the fading warmth of his own body while it dissipated. 

He sat there, clad in nothing but his trousers and the hastily cut bodice, which could not accommodate the width of his shoulders and thus sat low on his upper arms. The fabric chafed where once it soothed now, and James met Francis’ gaze head on; his jaw clenched.

He watched the bob of Francis’ throat as he swallowed and the play of light across his face while his eyes took in the length and breadth of James’ depravity, and James felt his stomach—what little there was left of it, sour, because even now. Even now his skin thrilled at the smooth fabric of the bodice. He wanted fripperies and softness, an imagined elegance, the princess rescued from durance vile. He, who had been his own rescuer so many times! Their breathing was loud in his ears, almost but never quite drowning out the sounds of the men and the ship around them.

“The color suits you,” Francis said finally, and if his voice was a little lost, James paid no heed, too busy flinching at the sound.

“I thought to use what supplies we had at hand,” James replied quickly. He had always had his stories. “Even though it’s cheap, it’s better that we have as much—as many layers between ourselves and the cold as possible. We have lost the sails and a good deal of…”

He trailed away, watching Francis reach out to trace the heart-shaped neckline pressed up against James’ skin. Gooseflesh erupted at the touch. James’ lips parted. His nipple tightened a mere inch from his Captain’s reach.

“What happened to the skirt?” Francis asked.

He had moved closer; their knees touched.

“Threw it away,” James whispered.

Francis drew his forefinger to the centermost dip of the bodice, right where a woman’s breasts might meet. He pressed against James’ skin, and James’ breath stuttered.

“I feel that as a great pity, James,” Francis said, and his hand cupped the side of James’ chest, his palm fully on James’ nipple.

James shuddered; his mouth dropped open, but long discretion kept him silent. His prick, softened from years in the cold, warmed and grew firm between his legs. Francis was watching, studying him as if he could see inside James’ head. His other hand reached up and fit itself at the side of James’ jaw. Francis’ thumb stroked his cheek.

“I think I remember how this goes,” Francis muttered. 

He kissed James, then, with soft lips and a firm mouth, and then pulled back in order to duck his head and kiss James again. Shivers scurried down James’ back as he was pulled closer, gently as if a hoop and petticoats blocked their way, and kissed like a sweetheart. His hands rose and fell to grasp Francis’ shoulders and then slid, palms open, to his chest. He felt crooked teeth nibble on his lower lip, and a quick tongue flickered out between his parted lips when he gasped.

They each pulled back on a breath of air, and James’ face was tucked into the bend of Francis’ neck. His hands clenched on Francis’ vest and shirt. Francis’ hands moved to cup the back of his head and trace the outline of his spine, respectively. His fingers stumbled over the ribbons that held the back of the bodice closed. Above him, Francis’ breath came in harsh bursts; his body trembled.

“I—” Francis swallowed, audibly. “I have no skill in games, nor…understanding, truly, but I do have some history with the…the concept of…”

He stopped speaking, clearly as confused as the racing, aimless rush of James’ own thoughts. Where was Francis’ censure? Where his condemnation? He’d felt the lash of Francis’ contempt so many times before that to be bereft of it made his head swim. How could drink so effect a man that his ire died with its addiction? James’ stomach shook with sudden nerves. Without raising his head, James lifted his hand and set his fingers to Francis’ lips. They sat together, quietly, their breath puffing out in clouds, and Francis drew the tips of James’ fingers into his mouth.

James gasped as Francis’ tongue flickered against his skin; the warmth of Francis’ mouth was shocking. He shuddered when Francis began to suck, and pulled back far enough to see, to be seen in his ill-fitting bodice, without a skirt to hide his immodesty. His vision swam as he held Francis at arm’s length.

He had never had ready answers for the truth of himself, excepting that which promoted him in the service. His accomplishments he could expound upon, but his self? What answer lay in inclination when duty held sway? What place had it in the Navy? James shook his head, and Francis let go of his fingers.

He dropped them, shivering and cold but strangely enervated, to the top buttons of Francis’ vest. Francis stared at him, eyes wide and his face flushed with a glowing pink. James, obscurely, wanted to kiss his cheek, but held himself back; he had never been anyone’s bit o’ raspberry.

Francis reached up and brought their hands together again, folded in between his own. He leaned forward, and tilted his head so that somehow he was looking up at James rather than down. James licked his lips, and swallowed with some difficulty. He stuttered his own inhalations, and his heart pounded.

“We—we are not ourselves,” James said, and shivered when Francis clenched their combined hands. “I would hope that discretion may be God’s second daughter, equally as stern—”

“Is now really a time for poetry, James?” Francis asked.

James bit his lip and shrugged. “This clearly has no part of duty, Captain.”

“What about comfort?” Francis asked. “Or care?”

“Are they not all a part of duty?”

Francis chuckled. “How long have you been in the navy again?”

James shook their joined hands and leaned back, and Francis dropped his head down ruefully. “I have neglected my duties,” Francis said to their hands. “Shamefully so.”

James paused. He couldn’t disagree, but what right did he have now to do so anyway? A bitter wisp of smoke caught the back of his throat, and he swallowed until he thought he could taste blood. Francis looked up again, head tilted just so, and his eyes opened wide. James did not know this Francis Crozier, had never seen this look directed to his own gaze. He glanced away, and felt himself, of all things, blush. It was ridiculous, of course. He was a man of action, not some pigeon-livered molly.

“If comfort and care, James, aren’t in that poem, then perhaps we can extend them regardless,” Francis said quietly. “To steady our course for the duty ahead.”

James shook his head; his hair fell about him, and Francis reached up and tucked it behind his ear. His eyes glanced at James’ hairline, but he said nothing. He again cupped the side of James’ head and James, always too weak in the end, tilted his head into Francis’ grip.

“We will be heard,” James whispered. 

“We will not,” Francis said. 

“How can you say that?” James glanced towards the cabin door, beyond which lurked the stewards, the men, their fellow officers and every marine with his rifle. Reckless he had been in his youth, but never when it mattered most.

“Because…” Francis frowned, a thinking face more than an expression of displeasure, and James saw him come to a decision with a slow blink of his eyes. “Because when the captain is with his woman, a crew that knows what’s good for them grows suddenly deaf.”

It hit him like a thunderbolt, like the impact of a rocket exploding into fiery sparks into the air, and James shuddered beneath the impact. His skin flushed and grew damp, his mouth fell open to gasp the air, and his entire body tightened into one singular nerve point, singing in vibration. Francis drew him forward and James fell into him, suddenly ravenous for the taste of his mouth.

They kissed, open-mouth, deeply. Francis bit James’ bottom lip and sucked once, hard, on his tongue. James clenched his hands behind Francis’ back. The table groaned once when Francis pushed them over; they froze, panting into each other’s mouths, but no one marked the noise.

“What did I tell you?” Francis whispered as he dragged his hand up James’ left side and palmed his hip. 

James half-lay, sideways, on the table, with Francis leaning over him. He rubbed his thighs together and raised his head from the table. His mouth felt overwarm, perhaps bruised, but it was cold without Francis’ mouth to cover it. 

“Can you be quiet?” James whispered, and his voice came out too high and breathy. He cleared his throat and tilted his head towards the ceiling as Francis kissed the underside of his jaw. “How do—I did not expect this…Francis, I truly did not.”

Francis slid his hand to the front panel of James’ trousers and pressed against James’ trembling belly; he pushed his thumb into James’ bellybutton. James moaned and put his hand over his own mouth. It had been so long since anyone other than he himself had taken him in hand and now…now it was Francis making James whine softly when he pulled James’ hand away to take his lips. It was as if James’ very breath was being stolen from his body.

They kissed once and then again, and James took hold of the edge of the table with his left hand. Francis stretched his fingers down and in between James’ closed thighs. James’s legs parted, trembling, as Francis rubbed his prick in a soft circle, just the edge of too little pressure right at the head. Francis pushed up and James’ hips arched off of the table.

“I’m an old sailor,” Francis said, even as his hand rubbed and massaged and wasn’t _enough_ such that James began pull at him with his own hands, trying to bring him down on top. “I have…”

James covered his traitorous mouth again to keep from damning the navy and mewling like a fool. Francis kissed James on his knuckles, where they covered his mouth, and then leaned back to kiss him on the breast, right where the bodice was falling. James shivered.

“I have served in many places, and seen many things,” Francis said, staring into James’ eyes. 

James loosened his grip on his mouth. “Just because we’re both men of the world, does not mean…I mean, to say I would like very much if I could explain that I—I am _not_…”

He trailed away yet _again_, overcome with so many thoughts that he contradicted himself before he even put voice to them. Francis watched him, and James could not say he understood this new man, but that glimmer in Francis’ eyes beckoned him. It recognized James, suddenly without derision. Had his Sophia seen it? Had she known _this_ look existed, that waited and watched and somehow knew? Even Francis’ damnable hands had stilled, waiting for James to continue. He could feel Francis, hard against his leg. He could see his pale worn face, his mouth pinked from kisses.

“I’m not your woman,” he said quietly, and made his voice soft and high. “I’m a lady.”

Something in the line of Francis’ body relaxed above him. He smiled, showing his crooked teeth. “Of course you are,” he agreed softly.

“I won’t be tossed aside,” James said. “I have family.”

“Never,” Francis said. “We are partners in this.”

He leaned down, taking his weight upon his elbow, and kissed James high on the cheek. James sighed and turned into the kiss. Francis’ cheek was smooth, only slightly marred with stubble as befitted the hour.

“Beautiful,” Francis whispered. “Beautiful girl, open your thighs for me.”

James trembled and clutched at Francis’ body. Francis’ hand rubbed upwards again; he massaged two fingers around the head of James’ prick. James gasped, a high, tremulous sound; it felt right in his—in her—in his mouth.

“Make me warm,” James murmured and kissed the side of Francis’ head. “Make me feel good?”

“Ye—yes,” Francis said. He turned his head and slide his mouth on top of James’ lips, slowing dipping his tongue inside to flick against the roof of James’ mouth. James whimpered and sighed as Francis kissed his way down the line of James’ collarbone. He nosed aside the bodice and licked the points of James’ nipples until they tightened and pulled away from his chest. James tossed his head back; his knees fell open.

He lay there, gasping, as Francis divested James of his trousers, deftly opening every button, and pulled his prick out of his undergarments. Cold air stole into the open slit; James shivered. He bucked when Francis’ other hand slid lower and gripped him at the buttocks.

“Oh,” he gasped. “Oh, Francis, I—”

“We’ve nothing, damn it,” Francis said suddenly, and James lifted his head. “Another time?”

James panted, and felt himself flush. He felt wide-eyed and—and strange, as if some string inside him had been plucked and was now vibrating. He nodded quickly, and was rewarded with Francis’ grin.

“Now, have pity on your old captain, girl,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s been some time.”

James raised himself to his elbows as Francis sat back in his seat and kissed the tip of his prick, soundly. James clapped a hand over his face, and bit the meat of his hand to keep silent. Francis licked him from the tip of his cockstand to the base, holding James’ prick in one hand and his stones in the other. His mouth was searing in the cold of the room, and James quivered all over. He widened the gap of his knees and threw his leg over Francis’ shoulder, trying to pull him in closer. The bodice moved against James’ skin, loosened to his waist like he—like she— Francis sucked, once, and James shivered all over, curling her body forward so that her hair fell across her face.

Francis’ mouth was hot, filthy in its abandon and James gave herself over to it, skin heating beneath the lashing of Francis’ tongue against her prick. She fell back and trembled upon the table, and pushed her hand against her mouth harder to contain her moans. She dragged her hand down her own body, over the cheap fabric that barely maintained her modesty and down to where Francis’ head bobbed over her cock. 

Her body ached for him, alive to each nerve that seemed to have hibernated in the endless cold suddenly coming alight. She mewled softly and grabbed Francis’ hair, pushing his mouth up her prick, practically unconscious to the sounds that rose from their tryst. She wanted his mouth and his body, to feel it against her own, and inside her. The captain’s lady—his aid and support, his _partner_ in all things, helpless as Francis sucked at her, in strong pulls that drew his head back out of her grasp and then brought him back to her again. He rolled her stones in his hand, as gentle as a man with a virgin, and a groan broke out from deep within her belly. The air seemed to shatter like glass around them.

James sat up, and clenched his hand over his mouth as if he could call the noise back again. His chest ached fiercely. Francis’ head stilled in his lap. They waited, and James barely dared to breath. He felt his bodice slip further down his shoulders, and the way his hair tumbled, messy and wanton about his face. Francis sat up, and James’ prick flopped out, still traitorously hard between his legs.

His hands shook, and then he became conscious of the full body shivers wracking his body. Francis stood and embraced him, held their bodies close. His chin dug into James’ shoulder. The ship’s noise continued around them, the creak and groan of timbers already strained to their maximum.

Slowly, James tried to push Francis away, to stand by his side and greet fate together, but Francis clutched at him, and James couldn’t stir him further without making even more noise. The deck creaked above them, and James raised his head. He swallowed and tensed his jaw. He caught Francis’ eye and managed a smile which Francis only just reciprocated. By inches, they relaxed and leaned against one another. James leaned his head on Francis’ shoulder. Francis let his arms loosen enough to fall to James’ hips.

“I do not…” James began, and Francis shushed him, rubbing his warm hand up and down James’ back. James closed his eyes, but opened them once more.

He raised his head and met Francis’ eye squarely. His jaw worked to loosen the tightness in his throat. His captain had engaged with him in a shared madness; he deserved an equal measure of sanity.

“I cannot give you answers, sir,” James said. “If you wish to—I know I am—am _not_—“

“I do not doubt that had you answers, you’d also stand ready with a story to tell me,” Francis interrupted. “And most amusing it would be. I repeat, James.” 

With that, he reached up and cupped the side of James’ head once more. They watched each other, closer than propriety or even the silent rules of men aboard ships allowed. James’ mouth softened; his face tilted.

“I repeat, James,” Francis said again. “I have seen many things.” His mouth quirked. “And I liked that noise just now.” 

His voice was roughened and dark, pitched only for James to hear. 

James shivered. “Did you?” he murmured.

“I,” Francis cleared his throat. “I did…my dear.”

James felt the brush of Francis’ trousers against his naked cock and. His teeth ached, but nothing untoward. He smiled, and breathed in deeply. He dropped his hands between them and found the buttons holding Francis’ trousers closed.

“Together, then?” James asked.

Francis nodded. He tucked James’ hair behind his ears and kissed his temple. “Together.”

James undid the placket, and slipped his hand inside, curling his fingers around Francis’ poor, neglected cockstand. He drew it out into the open and gathered his own prick against Francis’ cock. Francis clutched at his shoulders, and thrust carefully into the circle of his hands. 

They rocked together, slickened by their precome and the remains of Francis’ ministrations. The heat build between them once more. Francis’ hands caught in the ribbons holding James’ bodice closed, and he tightened his fingers, forcing the fabric tightly against James’ ribs. His breath fluttered out of his mouth; Francis kissed his ear and his jaw, and James bit down on his shoulder, whimpering into the sodden fabric.

Francis felt so solid against him, so present and warm, and James could only sip the air that had begun to smell like them as their thrusts grew harder, faster. James slipped off the table and pressed Francis back against the side of the ship. It was awkward and James had to bend his knees to keep them level. The buttons of Francis’ vest pressed into his skin through the thin velvet of his bodice. Their trousers knocked about their knees. James’ heart beat faster, his breath shortened even more, as he tightened his grip on both their pricks. Francis licked a burning stripe down his neck and James shuddered as it froze in the frigid air. He mumbled something into James’ skin and sucked the point of his shoulder. James opened his mouth, and barely caught the full-bodied moan that threatened to erupt as a rolling, full-bodied rush of nerves and heat flushed him from the top of his head to his aching heels. 

His spend splattered between them, and Francis shook against him, clutching him so hard James heard threads snap. He gasped and swayed, and James leaned back against the table, taking Francis’ weight. He grasped Francis about the waist and regained his breath.

At length, Francis looked up at him and met his eyes. James waited for the next step, an abjuration to discretion, or a plea, perhaps a command ordering James to re-master himself. Instead, Francis set his thumb to James’ lips and stroked across their seam. He clasped James’ chin and smiled.

“A most enjoyable evening, my lady,” he said quietly.

James found himself chuckling. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, indeed, Francis.”

He was released and Francis placed both hands on his shoulders. James looked at him, full in the face, and marveled, privately, that Francis looked back. 

“We should clean up,” James said. “Best not tempt fate.”

“We’ll save that for the journey,” Francis said.

***

It was useless to smack his tongue against the roof of his mouth for moisture; there was none, only the numbing spreading ache that infiltrated his bones to his sinews to his muscles and left him wretched in the belly of the boat the men dragged onwards. The sky was unchanged, a light blue like a girl’s spring dress, puffed with clouds. At times, Francis appeared above him, and sometimes Little. Once, it was that Hickey and then there was such a confusion of noise that the return to quiet and blue dress sky was blessed rather than disturbing.

It was confusing… No, it was… He knew where he was, of course. He knew where he was, and who he was, and for that James thanked whatever measure of divinity existed on the hellish rocky ground they dragged their boats across. 

Perhaps it was Francis he thanked, though, because only Francis still stood tall when everyone else was laid low. If Lady Silence had her monster, maybe they had Francis, who raised them out of perdition by the skin of his fingernails. He listened to the groans of the men in their hauling ropes, the slip of stones beneath their feet. He heard the whistle of their breath and tasted despair whenever he was lifted out to bed down in yet another attempt to sleep.

Francis stayed with him, because Francis was of that disposition, and often the warmth of his body was the only pulse of calm James felt over the pain. He fed from Francis’ own hands, liquid snow poured down his throat in a pretense of soup. James’ hands refused to obey him anymore. They slept, they woke, and then James was placed in the boat. Sometimes he closed his eyes and woke in the boat, a novelty he treasured.

The sky was searingly bright this day, and the air tasted of nothing but cold. James’s nose twitched. His teeth, what remained, ached, and he found it hard to swallow. A last groan, and the boat rocked beneath him as it settled into rocks, or perhaps the dirt. James could no longer remember.

Francis appeared above him; Francis, who knew him all now, completely. His dear reddened face poking out from beneath his cap and wig. James wanted to reach up, but it was an awful lot of trouble to move, so he simply kept breathing, as Francis had asked him to do…some time ago.

He was lifted up, and moaned, past the point of charade. His eyes fluttered closed. He worked his tongue and lips, a habit he could not break, and then frowned as he was set down again. There was shouting, a great deal of it. 

James rocked in place, and groaned as he was raised again, this time not in the boat. Not in the boat? His chest ached around his lungs, but he breathed, as Francis had…as Francis had asked…

He was carried some place dark and warm, the change reverberated through his head. He tried to lift it and could not. A whimper built in his throat, a helpless, barking yawp like a wounded puppy, and it shamed him. Where was he? Where was this? Was it finally hell?

Hands grasped his poor revenant fists and drew him close. His mouth was opened, and a tube placed on his tongue; it sunk down his sore throat. James thrashed, or thought he did, and suddenly it was Francis’ voice in his ear, shushing him with a soft crooning voice. A warmth appeared in his mouth, a taste of salt in the back of his throat. He gagged. Fingers brushed his throat and rubbed up and down up and down…up and down…

Someone spoke, and Francis answered. James tried to pay attention, but there was something…something different…his feet twitched in his boots, suddenly itchy. He frowned, and gagged again as the tube was pulled out of his throat. Francis covered his neck with his whole palm and kissed him. 

James forced himself to open his eyes, and found that he was naked, beneath a heavy fur. He saw Francis above him, raw and red and crying, and looming behind him Lady Silence. Above them all stood some kind of structure, white like snow. His eyes closed, and when he opened them again Francis lay tucked against his body, also naked. James thought he could smell a fire. He thought he might even feel one.

“You see, my dear?” Francis whispered. “All will be well now.”


End file.
